


Stan The Man Gets Off a Good One!

by runboyrun



Series: Stan My Man! [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aftercare, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Fingering, Crying, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Overstimulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 22:38:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12850998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runboyrun/pseuds/runboyrun
Summary: “W-w-well he has to p-p-pull shit if he wants to someone to p-pull it.” Bill chuckled, “Y-you know how it g-g-goes.”The crease in Stan’s brow deepened, “Not really.”He hadn’t meant for them to hear him, but both boys’ heads shot up a little too quickly for Stan’s liking.“C’mon Stan, everyone’s gotta cum sometime.” Eddie said, laughing with Bill. But, both boy’s eyes were trained on Stan.“I mean, it can’t be that great. It’s just making a mess. People just make it a big deal.”





	Stan The Man Gets Off a Good One!

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a joke, but here we are over 8k later.
> 
> Thank you to queenjameskirk for beta-ing this and being a perfect human to bounce ideas off of, bless you.

When Stan was little he would always wash his hands three times. Rinse, two pumps of soap, scrub for 45 seconds, rinse, repeat. It would drive his father crazy waiting for him to be happy with his hygiene. 

Once, when Stan was four, he scooped him by the waist to try carry him out. He let out a big laugh at Stan’s shriek, thinking it was just surprise, but stopped when he saw the panic in Stan’s eyes. Stan wasn’t done washing yet. 

Mr. Uris gently set his son back in front of the faucet and waited patiently as he finished his scrubbing, stroking his curls to try and soothe away the hiccups bubbling out of his son. He didn’t rush him again after that.

Stan knew that most children didn’t wash their hands three time; Christ Richie probably hadn’t touched a sink since June, but he did. He needed to. He couldn’t stand the idea of being dirty.

\---------- 

As he grew older he became more patient with the messes in the world. He didn’t cry when his chicken touched his carrots, he didn’t stop moving when he saw cracks on the sidewalk, and he did his _very_ best to not slide away from Richie when he smelled smoked coating his clothes. 

Richie’s parents didn’t wash his clothes often like Stan’s did. Sometimes Stan would stomach carrying a spare backpack full of Richie’s laundry back to his own house to wash. His mom knew that the garish Hawaiian print didn’t belong to Stan but pressed and folded it just the same. Stan would leave the bag in Richie’s locker the next morning before class. 

The first time he’d done it Richie hadn’t said anything, but Stan saw his shoulders shaking from down the hall. His smile was wobbly when Stan approached, quickly making some comment or another about Eddie’s mother being the reason for the red in his cheeks. Stan couldn’t remember the exact jab, just that’d he responded as he always would and the weight on Richie’s shoulders lifted. Richie still didn’t say anything and Stan still didn’t mention it. It was just… he liked to help keep Richie clean when Richie couldn’t do it himself. 

But, much to his annoyance, Richie was steadily becoming more insistent on Stan getting dirty. The jokes of “tickling your pickle” seemed to grow every day that hormones settled further into their bloodstream. 

“C’mon, Stanny boy! Don’t you wanna feel good?” Richie cackled as he trotted between Stan and Bill. “Just the lightest touch to that cut cock will make you get off a good one!”

“Shut up, Richie.” Stan didn’t even bother to glance over.

“But, _Stan_ maybe it’ll loosen up that kink in your neck.” Richie’s glasses leaned in so close Stan couldn’t pretend he wasn’t hearing him, “Or maybe, we can work out a few kinks-”

“B-Beep beep, Richie.” 

Bill must’ve seen the tension in Stan’s neck since he slung his arm around Richie to pull him ahead of Stan. Shaking his head, Stan followed. He didn’t mean to get tense, but Richie just brought it up _so much_. You’d think his brain would cease to function if he didn’t bring up some form of his genitalia at least once an hour. 

Stan didn’t see the appeal of sex, not really. Sure, it supposedly felt good, great even, but at what cost? Just the idea of… _fluids_ mixing made him want to gag. He wasn’t ever going to get himself dirty on purpose - that was just stupid.

So Stan didn’t. He’d roll his eyes and reject high fives and serve an occasional clapback - but he never partook in the activities Richie was always yelling about. High School came and went and Stanley Uris never came once.

It had never been an issue really, until his second semester at the University of Maine. Richie and he had become roommates due to Stan’s inability to tolerate anyone else near his things and Richie’s ready ability to let Stan do whatever he needed to either of their things. Richie understood Stan’s need for tidiness and let him do as he pleased. Hell, he even did his laundry since Richie, _just didn’t fold that right, Christ just hand it over._ It was a cohesive set up.

Stan however, hated getting kicked out of the room. It didn’t happen often, Richie could pull fine but tended to keep the encounters just sparse enough that Stan couldn’t get indignant. Whenever Richie did tumble in with a pretty girl (or boy) hanging off his neck Stan had to either watch, which… _no_ , or trudge across nearly half the campus to Bill and Eddie’s room. 

The walk was cold and shitty. The bronze turtle statue in front of his building mocked him as he passed. Bill always laughed at him when he showed up too; red nosed and disgruntled. 

“H-he bring someone b-b-back again, Buddy?” Eddie was engrossed in his medical textbook but snorted something equally annoying at Stan’s entrance.

“Shut up. You’re both awful.”

Eddie did laugh at that, “If we’re awful, you wanna sleep in the hall?” Stan’s groan was louder than he would normally allow himself to be.

“I have an exam tomorrow, he can’t keep pulling this shit.” Stan grumbled as he climbed onto Bill’s bed, already plopping his feet into the stuttering boy’s lap. Bill adjusted his laptop accordingly.

Eddie and Bill shared a look that Stan didn’t understand or appreciate. They were acting like there was something he was missing and he didn’t like being out of the loop. The two boys’ silent conversation lasted a few more seconds before Eddie rolled his eyes and Bill snorted, jarring Stan’s legs.

“W-w-well he has to p-p-pull shit if he wants to someone to p-pull it.” Bill chuckled, “Y-you know how it g-g-goes.”

The crease in Stan’s brow deepened, “Not really.”

He hadn’t meant for them to hear him, he was practically over it by this point anyway. Bill’s bed had that effect with its absurd thread count and multiple blankets (one of which Stan had already burrowed in). But both boys’ heads shot up a little too quickly for Stan’s liking.

“C’mon Stan, everyone’s gotta cum sometime.” Eddie said, laughing with Bill. But, both boy’s eyes were trained on Stan. God, this was going to become a thing when all Stan wanted to do was sleep.

Stan started to pull at the loose knit of Bill’s blanket, trying to remove the little imperfection.

“I mean, it can’t be that great. It’s just making a mess. People just make it a big deal.”

It sure seemed like a big deal with the looks Eddie and Bill were giving him. They were trying not to seem surprised and Stan was trying not to seem flustered and no one was pulling it off. 

“S-So what’s that exam on?”

\----------

Stan left his exam feeling confident enough in his performance to not worry about his scholarships which, for once, was good enough. His thoughts had been a mess the entire time, he couldn’t even think of what the prompts had been - he’d be amazed if he didn’t get an email from Dr. Taylor asking him to please refrain from writing about ‘any form of masturbation’ in his political science essays in the future. 

As much as voluntary-dick-touching didn’t belong in a display academic performance, it was all that Stan could think about. The night before had led to revealing information that Stan was genuinely surprised that they didn’t already know - or at least assume. Stan was someone who liked things neat and was quick to get upset if they weren’t, why would they ever assume he’d get dirty on purpose?

Eddie and Bill didn’t bring it up again because they respected his privacy and (apparently) odd sexual choices. But that didn’t mean Stan wasn’t thinking about it. Their looks had crawled into his head and made a goddamn nest of confusion.

It wasn’t like he _hated_ sex, he’d just never thought about it. Why make a mess for something like that?

A voice that sounded suspiciously like a certain trashmouth wouldn’t stop whispering,

_How would you know? What if you like it? Don’t you wanna feel good?_

The accusations ricocheted within his mind - a constant pull he didn’t have the understanding to categorize. 

Stan’s felt good plenty of times. He felt good when he had fresh challah, or when he rode his bike like he was a kid again, or when Richie’s eyes lit up in that nanosecond before he ruined it by saying something stupid. Those all made him feel good, how was it any different? 

Different enough, those looks had said it all. Stan the Man was once again establishing himself as the baby of the group. Forget that he was the oldest, he never matched up to the rest of them. He’d been the last to learn to swim, last to jump at the quarry, last at _everything._

He was the baby, the coward, the truest form of loser. Stan could feel his lip start to wobble, the disgustingly familiar knot settling in his throat. He wasn’t going to cry about masturbating. This was stupid. His chin tucked to his chest as his pace sped up - fuck this, he wasn’t a coward. He wasn’t going to be the one who had to be treated with kid gloves _again_. 

Stan burst through his door with a purpose, puffing his chest and jutting his chin. He wasn’t a coward, he could grab a dick. 

He turned to twist the bolt on the door, flipping it back and forth to be sure he had it secure, before stepping over to his bed. An unfamiliar anxiety began to build low in his gut, his confidence fading as fast as it had come. He shook out his curls as he unbuttoned and folded his coat - this was stupid, he could do this. 

_This is nothing, Richie literally does this at least twice a day._

With his clothes, save his briefs, discarded and folded on his desk Stan hopped onto his bed. He sat for a moment before tugging his comforter down and leaving it crisply folded at the bottom of the bed. There… better. Okay.

Kneeling on his heels in bed didn’t seem the proper technique, but Stan wasn’t ever one to slouch. He stared at his uninterested crotch, hidden beneath the navy cotton and elastic of his briefs. He’d seen all the other Losers, Bev excluded, have a tent at least once before. Isn’t it just supposed to… do that? 

Stan inhaled deeply through his nose, held it, and slapped his palm down on top of the soft bulge. 

_Ow._

Okay, rough start. ‘Beating meat’ should be taken very liberally. Stan exhaled slowly out of his mouth, not unlike the breathing exercises Eddie practiced, and placed his hand back down over himself gently. He let it sit there, unmoving, too fixated on what he thought should be happening to try anything beyond this placement.

Once again, Stan felt nothing. He tried to think back on anything that could help him here - his mind kept landing on Richie. The trashmouth had been making dick jokes since he realized that he had one. Stan remembered once, when they had met Ben, that Richie had grabbed and dragged down when talking about how “long his wang” was, maybe that -

Oh. _Oh._

Stan’s posture almost immediately crumbled in on itself. That… that was something. He could feel his dick start to harden in his hand, he’d never felt the stiff coiling in his gut other than the occasional morning when he woke up. And even then it only lasted for a moment before annoyance set in. This, this was different. 

Stan tried the motion again, and found it difficult to keep a grip on himself. He felt as if he could feel each fiber of the cotton over his nerves. God, he hadn’t hardly begun and he already felt like he couldn’t continue.

Well fuck that. Stan wasn’t a coward. He grasped the elastic of his waistband with one hand, tugging it back, and dove in with the other. He nearly bit through his lip. This - this couldn’t be normal. No one in their right mind would ever want to do this. He could feel the coils of something warm in his gut but it kept getting outweighed by the sharp jolt that ran through him any time he tried to progress further into this exploration.

The longer he tried to keep it up, the more he felt his hand let go and hop away. It seemed that he’d been avoiding touching way more than anything else. Each clench of his grip or twist of his hand left him panting and overstimulated. 

It was becoming more frustrating than anything. He felt good, that was for sure. But, he also hurt. There was a tingling pain that would build like a static in his mind. He knew on some level that he should power through it. It didn’t _hurt_ , not in the way that falling or being sick did. But, the sensation kept stalling him from making any progress - which only made him more annoyed that no progress was being made. 

His phone vibrated against his thigh, startling him much more than it had any right to. It went off three more times before he gave up to look at the screen. All four were from Richie.

_Stan my MAN head to 241 immediately this is a matter of life and death hurry oh god help_

_The fact that you didn’t come to my aid right away is both hurtful and expected_

_Also it’s a party. You’re coming to a party._

_nOW STANIEL_

Stan groaned, crawling off of the bed. If he didn’t head downstairs in the next five minutes Richie would most assuredly come looking for him and Stan didn’t think he’d be able to handle that confrontation. Besides, five minutes wasn’t looking to be nearly enough time with how the entire shitshow had been playing out for him so far. 

Redressing as fast as he could, Stan chanced a glance at the mirror. It wasn’t obvious what he had been doing but his face did look a bit too flushed. From exertion or frustration; he didn’t know. But his eyes looked glassy and his knees were a little more wobbly than he was comfortable thinking about. 

His trudge to the elevator allowed a sense of shame to worm its way into his mind. He had been at that whole mess for what, nearly half an hour? And he had nothing to show for it. He felt his cheeks prickle for a whole new reason as the elevator door chimed his arrival. 

He would just go in, collect Richie’s undoubtedly drunk and/or stoned self, put him to bed, and forget all of this had ever happened. Clearly he couldn’t get his dick to listen to him, so might as well let that lie. Stan didn’t want to get dirty from the get-go, and now he knew he couldn’t even if he wanted to. Fine.

The music from 241 was spilling out from the open door into the hall, other rooms were propped open against fire code as well to allow movement for the party. Stan slipped into 241 where a tipsy Eddie, a very drunk Bill, and a surprisingly sober Richie were all laughing on the floor. 

Eddie was slapping Bill’s arm, saying something Stan could only make out through the music as, “Not funny!” But the smile on his face didn’t back it up. Richie’s face was gaping, disbelief at whatever nonsense Bill was spilling into the huddle. 

Stan clapped a hand on to Bill’s shoulder, he doubted the boy would know he was there otherwise. Bill’s head shot up and his eyes widened to almost concerning levels. He was looking at Stan like he had caught him with his dick out. Which, he had before, so the look was strikingly similar. 

“What’re we talking about?” Stan asked.

“Nothing!” Eddie and Bill both squeaked. Well, that was suspicious. Richie’s face still hadn’t moved, maybe it was stuck. Stan snorted at the notion.

The laugh diffused enough tension for the conversation to flow once more. But Stan’s thoughts kept drifting back to his bed - to his incapability to do what any 13 year old with a pulse could manage. Richie, apparently having regained his facial control, slid closer to him and wrapped an arm around his neck.

“What’s got you so pink, Stanny boy?” A long pale finger poked his cheek.

“Nothing.” but the question just made his cheeks darken, God, if Richie knew. He’d never hear the end of it.

“Sure thing, babe.” Richie pinched his cheek with a smile that seemed to know too much, “You gotta learn to loosen up. Don’t you wanna feel good?”

Stan gulped at that, there’s no way Tozier knew. _Jesus, get it together_. “Why aren't you drinking?” 

Richie laughed at that, “And leave our resident fuckboy unsupervised? Madness, I _say, Mistah Uris simpleh madness._ ” His voice had skewed into something that may have been Southern if it had been anything close to it. 

Stan looked over to Bill who was, indeed, needing supervision. The boy’s snapback had fallen to the wayside and his shirt covered half his face as he reached, “THIRTY” on his kegstand. Beer was dribbling out the side of his mouth as he fought to beat his old record. Eddie stood nearby recording the entire thing, a manic cackle bursting from his throat as Bill’s legs kicked in surrender. 

“ _FORTY ONE!_ ” The room roared at Big Bill as he let out a battle cry, remnants of beer spilling out of his unhinged jaw. 

“Wow, Staniel, forty one. Wonder if he did it on purpose.” Richie whispered into Stan’s ear as he pointed to the dorm placard, helping drown out the buzz of the room. 

Stan snorted, “I doubt it. You think Big Bill would pass up anything resembling 420?” 

Richie’s laugh was like a punch in the ear, “Oh! Stan the Man gets off a good one!” Stanley felt his ears heat at the remark, off hand as it was.

“Yeah. Well. Maybe we should get them?” Richie looked to follow Stan’s gaze where a wasted Bill was attempting to lift Eddie into a kegstand of his own.

“Oh, shit, yep. Billiam! Put the boy down!”

\----------

Stan had Bill’s weight leaning on him as Richie carried Eddie on his back. Stan had offered up their floor, there was plenty of room, but Bill had _insisted_ that they needed to go back to their own dorm. Richie had looked a bit flustered at that, but Stan assumed it was from the shock of Eddie springing himself onto the bespeckled boy’s back.

The walk back was silent, the drunken singing of the missing two no longer filling the gaps. Stand didn’t mind, silence with richie (however infrequent) was always nice. Never felt forced, no need to fill it -

“So, Stanley…”

Nevermind then.

“Yes, Richard?”

“Bill told me the most _interesting_ thing today...” his eyes slid to stare into Stan’s own. 

“Yeah, what would that be?” Bill’s tongue always got away from him when he started to drink. It made for some surprisingly successful flirting with unsuspecting boys and girls and a very jealous Eddie.

“Something about how our favorite little curly-q has never creamed his jeans.” 

Stan’s eyes bulged. No fucking way. God _dammit_ Bill.

Richie took his expression for confirmation, a slow grin sliding across his face “So it was true? Damn, Stanley. I could help you out with that -”

“Shut up, Richie.” Stan tried to reign his face back into indifference but _shit_ Richie was so close to him now, he looked excited.

“Aw, c’mon Stanny! I could break you in, soil that wedding dress of yours…” Richie started to giggle at the thought, and Stan could feel his cheeks ruddy for a whole new reason. Richie was _laughing at him._

He rolled his eyes, trying to diffuse the coming tirade. To get things back to the calm tranquility they had a moment ago, “That’s not funny.”

“Oh, no, it’s _amazing_.” Richie’s eyes were practically glowing behind his frames as his mouth ran away from him, “I’d treat you right Stanny boy, don’t you wanna feel good?”

“Beep beep, Richie.” Stan took off ahead of him, trying to create a distance between himself and this jackass. 

“Whoa, wait!” Richie, being 6’3 and nearly all legs, didn’t have to do much to catch up to Stan’s mere 5’7. Stan gave it another go, but Richie’s stride was nearly half the pace and it was too cold for this much effort. 

Stan stopped dead in the middle of the pavilion, Richie nearly stumbling into him.

“It’s not any of your business.” Stan hissed, unwilling to raise his voice and make a scene even in an empty courtyard, “It’s my problem and my fucked up self and _you_ can fuck right _off_ ,” And with that he was off again, Richie standing agape at his retreating back. Stan hadn’t touched him, would never raise a finger to his best friend, but you’d think he socked Richie a good one by the wounded look on his face.

When Stan got to the elevator he could see Richie’s slowly approaching form in the snow. Good, he didn’t want him to freeze out there - Richie was just giving him space to cool off. 

By the time Richie came in their room, head low, Stan had already changed and was tucked into his bed. Shame curled at his gut as he faced the wall, not wanting to be tempted to apologize for his outburst. Richie never meant anything cruel to Stan in his life; he probably wasn’t even capable of it.

Stan heard the creak of Richie’s bed as he climbed in, but the light of his bedside table stayed lit. The room was silent beyond the soft huff of their respective breathing, Stan assumed Richie may have already dozed off.

“Stanley?” Guess not then. Stan was losing his touch on predicting their silences, “I’m sorr-”

“Don’t.” Stan rolled over to look at Richie, “It’s fine.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.” Stan blinked at that.

“Okay.”

“You said you were fucked up. If you don’t want to like, get off or whatever, that’s okay.” Oh, that’s what Richie was thinking? “There’s nothing wrong with that, the Losers would never make fun of you for it. Sex isn’t for everyone.”

“I can’t.” The words spilled out before Stan could stop them.

“... You _can’t_?”

“I mean,” Stan tried to grasp the explanation he still didn’t understand himself, “It’s dirty and I don’t like being dirty but I’m not against it? So I tried to and I wasn’t doing it right and couldn’t make anything happen. But then something _did_ happen and it was a _lot_ ,” Richie’s eyes were slowly widening as Stan’s word vomit continued, “And then I just couldn’t do it anymore? It was too much and I couldn’t handle it but I wanted to but I _couldn’t_ and then you texted and…” Richie’s expression halted his tirade, “I can’t,”

Richie didn’t move or speak for so long that Stan was worried he’d broken him. The only thing indicating that he was still alive was how bright his eyes were, how his pupils were blown out across his dark irises. Stan didn’t feel the need to fidget in the silence. Richie was clearly deliberating something but Stan didn’t feel like he was about to be mocked in whatever conclusion he came to.

Richie’s gaze returned to him with clarity once again in his eyes, “Were you doing it right?” 

“Was I doing it right?” Stan deadpanned, “It’s still attached, so…?”

Richie laughed at that, “No, I mean, are you sure you were doing it right? I once had a girl who just squeezed the head like a juicy fruit or some shit. It’s uncharted territory for you, there’s nothing wrong with a learning curve.”

“... I slapped it.”

“Ohmygod.”

“Shut up.”

Richie looked like he was holding back tears, only restraining himself for what shreds were left of Stan’s dignity.

“Do you want to watch me?” Richie sat back up in bed, palms out, “I mean, I can show you what to do and then you can go light some candles and work that tension out. Just dudes helping bros - full homo.”

Richie grinned at the laugh that got out of Stan. Stan looked him up and down, searching for a motive, “Wouldn’t that make shit weird?”

“Not any weirder than we already are,” Richie gestured between the two of them like that somehow explained himself, “I’m pretty sure you could ask _any_ of the Losers and they’d help you out. Except maybe Ben, he doesn’t swing for us, but he’d totally keep your electrolytes up. Like a sexual waterboy.”

Stan had to be sure, “... This isn’t a joke, right?”

“Stanley Uris,” Richie began, his voice rang of nothing but sincerity, “I would happily masturbate in front of you to help you blossom into your sexual and what I’m deducing to be promiscuous self.”

“I…” Stan looked at Richie, really _looked_ at him. His sharp angles and massive, kind eyes. His fashion sense that managed to be abysmal even in pajamas. His outspread arms, palms up, treating Stan like a - like a child, a wounded animal, a _coward_.

“I can’t, Richie. Thanks though.”

And he rolled away, Hiding his face in his pillow like the coward he was.

\----------

Things, surprisingly, did not get weird between them. Stan woke up the next morning with a weight of shame in his gut, feeling as if he had let himself down once again. But, Richie had thrown a sweater and yarmulke to him and told him to, 

“Tally ho, my good Uris! We have got hungover babies to attend to!” in a cockney voice that was sure to make Bill want to kill them.

So, arms full of gatorade and greasy food, they trotted along the path to Eddie and Bill. The walk was full of the same banter as always and had no lack of eye rolls or rejected high fives. 

Stan would still meet with all the Losers for dinner at least once a week to catch up on anything the group had missed out on. He still tutored Beverly in statistics and received revisions from Bill in creative writing. He still babysat his friends at parties and made embarrassing snap stories documenting them. He still sat in the woods beside the campus, occasionally joined by Richie, and bird watched (if Richie came along he’d count on at least a three flowers braided into his hair.) Things were fine. Things were normal.

So why was Stan so goddamn _mad_? He didn’t have anyone he was directly mad at, certainly not Richie. And he had no reason to be mad at the proposal - Stan was also sure that any of the losers (save Ben) would offer the same service with some degree of embarrassment or humor. He was mad at himself. He fucked himself over once again in the name of… of what? Dignity? 

He’d slapped his dick like it was a Bop-It; dignity was no longer present in this scenario.

He had rejected Richie for no other reason than his own fear. Resigning himself to not take the leap all over again. To not try. 

Fuck that, he’d tried once hadn’t he? Sure, it sucked. But, something - _something_ \- had happened. He wasn’t broken, he just needed a push. And who was better at pushing than - 

“Richie,”

“Yeah?”

“Pull your dick out.”

The dorito halfway to Richie’s mouth fell onto his bedspread, they stared at each other.

“I’m referring to your offer from last week, not just - pulling your penis out for no reason.”

“Yeah, I gathered that, Stanley.” 

Richie turned on his mattress to face Stan. Stan, instead of moving to his own, hopped onto Richie’s bed. At the raised eyebrows, Stan mumbled, “If I can’t see what you’re doing how is it going to help?”

Richie chuckled nervously, “Fair enough.” He began to reach for his fly, “Did you want a show or…?”

Stan just looked at the edge of Richie’s glasses, his hair, his flannel, anything but his eyes. 

“Just show me how you do it.” Richie inhaled sharply at that, “Show me what you’re supposed to do.”

Richie undid his fly with little preamble, sliding his boxers down just enough to get to his dick, already half hard. _He could get hard just from existing_ , Stan thought with annoyance. 

“Okay, so… everyone’s different.” Stan snorted, “No, I’m serious. It sounds dumb, but it’s true. Believe it or not, some people do like their business getting slapped by cute little Hebrews.”

“Richie…”

“Right, right,” Richie had a firm grasp around his shaft, slowly applying pressure one finger at a time - like a wave. “So first you gotta just, let yourself get there. Feel it out. Enjoy the build up.”

After a few moments of Stan’s unblinking gaze, now like a lazer to his dick, Richie started to jack himself properly.

Richie licked his lips, “Some people like speed, some people like it firmer,” he swirled his thumb across the head, “Y-you just gotta map yourself out.”

Stan caught the stutter, “Does that feel good?” Richie’s breath punched right out of him, eyes widening. “Are you going to cum from this?”

It was a genuine question, but Stan felt a little off guard by how scandalized Richie looked for someone with their hand on their dick. Maybe he hadn’t heard him, Stan remembers a buzzing in his ears when he’d tried.

Going to his knees, Stan leaned into Richie’s space. He caught his eyes, so he’d know Richie was listening, “Does that feel good, Richie?”

A moan spilled out of Richie’s lips before he bit down on them. Stan blinked, looking down at Richie’s now rapidly moving hand, back up to Richie’s flushed face.

Oh. 

OH.

“Do…” Word this carefully, Stan. Richie already looked nervous, “Do you like when I talk to you?”

Richie’s breath came out like a gasp, “Yeah, yeah, Stan. I, _shit_ , I do.” his wrist twisting on the upstroke, Stan hadn’t noticed. When had he started doing that?

“Is that why you’re going to cum? Because I’m talking to you?” Richie laughed a bit at that, but he looked too overwhelmed for it to be rude.

“I can cum just fine, Stanny boy. But you’re certainly helping move the process along.” He started to slow his hand, which Stan found odd. He had looked close to - to whatever it is he was doing.

“Why did you slow down?” Stan asked, but he could feel the heat in the room spreading as he did.

“Well…” Richie started, a lazy grin matching his new set pace, “I like to savor it, called edging - that’s for another day. But,” Richie’s other hand tapped a pattern onto Stan’s thigh, “ _Someone_ has decided to join the party.”

Stan looked down, and stopped breathing. He was hard. He was _hard_. How? He hadn’t touched himself, his palms were knotted in the sheets. Richie’s hand moved to touch his chin, tilting him back up to meet his gaze.

“Do you want to touch yourself, Stanley?” Richie’s eyes didn’t leave his own as he took Stan’s hand.

“I… uh.” Stan couldn’t look away from the deep brown pools as his hand was moved to lay over his erection. This was the point, right? He just wanted to know what to do.

Stan’s entire hand could almost fit in Richie’s palm as he splayed his fingers out. Richie cupped his fingers around Stan’s own, curling him in and down on the bulge. 

Stan immediately cried out, pulling his hand away. Richie had a look of terror for a moment, worried he had crossed a line in this uncharted territory. But, Stan didn’t move away from Richie. His own hand shook over Richie’s; neither of them touching Stan.

“Baby,” Richie cooed, “Are you that sensitive?” Stan could feel his flush spreading down his chest at the tone. The pool between his legs felt tighter.

“I don’t know, I guess…” Stan started, unable to finish the thought. Is that what it was? Sensitive didn’t seem like a strong enough word.

“Just slide your pants off, babe.” Stan’s fingers shakily undid the button and fly, “That’s it, that’s so good.” Stan didn’t know what was so good about knowing how to undo his pants, but the _tone_ left him feeling weak as he tugged them off and folded them neatly.

“Richie, I don’t know…” Richie ducked his body a bit to meet Stan’s eyes again.

“You don’t know if you want to do this or you don’t know how?” Richie wasn’t going to push this with anything less than consent from the other boy. If Stan wasn’t ready, he wasn’t ready. But, if Stan was willing and just unable? Richie could work with that.

“I-” Stan tried to avoid the gaze, but Richie’s hand slipped into his cherub curls. And shit, if _that_ didn’t work him up more, “I don’t know how.”

The admission didn’t feel as bitter on his tongue as he feared it would. There wasn’t any judgment in Richie’s knowing look and his smile didn’t seem cruel. He, once again, looked excited.

“Okay, baby, okay.” His fingers carded through the locks of hair, “Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna walk you through it, step by step. And you’re gonna listen, right?” Stan nodded, “That’s right, you’re gonna be so good for me.” A noise Stan didn’t recognize as his own slipped out, “ _Oh_ , yeah. You’re gonna be so good.”

Richie’s hand continued to pet through Stan’s increasingly sweaty curls. The palm that hovered below Stan’s own reached down to his briefs. Slipping two fingers into the elastic, Richie drew the waistband away from Stan’s soft stomach. 

Stan stared into Richie’s eyes, lost as to what he was doing. Richie lifted one brow, eyes sliding down to Stan’s crotch and back to his face. 

“Well? Go on then.” Stan flushed at the gravelly edge to Richie’s slurred voice. He ducked his head, looking down the opening of his underwear at his flushed cock. It looked so… _dirty_. For once, Stan didn’t feel the itch to clean.

But, his hand shoving down into his drawers was immediately retracted upon making contact with the swollen flesh. A hiss from between his teeth made Richie coo at him.

“Slower, baby, slower.” Stan drew in a ragged gasp for air as he went back in, slower as instructed.

Even with the slowed pace and softer grip, Stan looked near tears the moment his fingers curled around himself. Richie released the elastic, the band snapping onto Stan’s wrist - trapping him in his briefs.

“Now, start to stroke.” Richie leaned in closer, until they were ear to ear. Stan began to try, but his grip was jumping between attempting to hang on and getting away from the feeling. His forehead dropped to Richie’s shoulder, it was so _much_. 

Richie’s fingers pet from his hair down his neck, squeezing tighter on Stan’s nape at the responding moan. “Relax baby, you’ve gotta relax.” Muscles strained along the smaller boy’s neck and back. God, Stan was going to pull something.

“I-I... “ Stan licked his lips, trying to form anything resembling a word, “I _can’t_. It’s too much.” A frustrated sob bubbled out of his throat, this was just like last time. He couldn’t do it.

“Do you want to be good for me?” Richie murmured in his ear, rubbing along the knobs of his spine.

“I don’t know _how_ ,” Stan lamented, losing any filter of his thoughts, “I want to but I can’t, it _hurts_. It feels good but it h-hurts.” 

Richie drew Stan’s hand out of his underwear. No _nonono_ Richie was giving up on him. Stan couldn’t do it and now they were going to stop because Stan was a coward, no -

“Shhh, shhh, baby it’s okay.” Richie was cooing in Stan’s ear through the growing static. He must have been saying it out loud by Richie’s words, “You’re so good, baby. Such a good boy for me. You can do it, just need a little help, right?”

Richie’s arms went under Stan’s thighs and twisted them both to the side. Stan’s back rested against the wall Richie’s bed was pushed up against, and Richie knelt between his spread thighs. 

Richie yanked his flannel up and off, and Stan could see the flush was pinking his entire chest. He could see the thick dark hair trailing a line all the way down to his cock, which was just as hard as when they began, flushed and red, poking up from his skewed jeans. He looks obscene. Stan couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

Stan’s own button up, a once crisp collar wrapped in a soft oversized sweater, hung across his heaving collarbones. His briefs had a damp patch that continued to spread across the strained cotton. His socks were still on, baby blue and clinging to his sweaty calves. If Richie looked obscene, Stan figured he must look _destroyed_. 

“You’re beautiful. My beautiful boy.” Richie murmured, didn’t seem to even realize he was speaking, as he raked his eyes over Stan’s shaking figure. 

“Richie, Richie, please…” Stan begged, not even sure what he was asking for. More of the unbearable? More of what he was sure he couldn’t take?

“Baby, I’m gonna make you feel so good.” Richie promised and Stan felt a large hand invade his briefs once more. The fingers, so much more assured than his own, curled around his shaft.

Stan could feel his pulse all the way through his thighs. 

“Oh God, oh _fuck_ …” Stan’s eyes couldn’t find anywhere to settle, flitting all over the bedroom for something to try and make sense of what he was feeling. Richie’s hands soothed along Stan’s forehead as he softly gripped his cock. 

“It’s alright baby,” Richie’s hand started to move, up and down, jerking a soft cry out of Stan. Stan’s hips fought between going into Richie’s grasp and getting as far away as possible, settling on slamming his hip back into the wall behind him. “No, no - shhhhh” fingers laced into Stan’s curls, tugging softly but firmly, “I’m right here. You’re alright.”

“Richie, Richie - I, _fuck_ ,” Stan gasped, Richie’s thumb twirled across the head, “I can’t, it’s too-”

“It’s just fine baby, you’re just fine.” Richie crowded in closer to his boy, his hand slipped away from Stan, smiling softly at his cry at the loss, “Turn around for me, sweetie. Just like that.”

Stan didn’t do exactly what Richie had asked. His twitching knees had haphazardly thrown him sideways, trying to crawl away from Richie’s unyielding hands.

“Oh, baby, come here.” wiry arms wrapped around Stan’s waist, tugging him between Richie’s spread legs until his back was flush to Richie’s chest. 

Before Stan could get his brain to move each of Richie’s wide palms grabbed his thin thighs. He pulled up and out until Stan’s legs wrapped over top of his own, splaying him open and vulnerable. Unable to unhook and get away.

“Richie, I-” A kiss was pressed to his neck as Richie’s chin hooked over his shoulder.

“Now we’re gonna make you feel good.” 

And with that, Richie yanked Stan’s briefs down his thighs - restricting him even further. His nails whispered up Stan’s quaking thighs, palming lightly across his newly exposed skin, dragging across his spattered pubic hair. 

“Don’t you wanna feel good?” 

“I…”

“Stanley. Do you wanna feel good?”

And Stan knew it wasn’t just a tease. It wasn’t just a taunt on all of Stan’s inexperience and virginity and fears. It was an offering. If Stan said no, if he told Richie he didn’t want to do this, then Richie would let go of him. Richie would give him space and make sure he was okay and assure him there was nothing wrong with him and tuck him into bed and cuddle next to him. 

They would act like this never happened just like the laundry. He would take care of him and keep him clean.

Or Stan could get dirty.

“Yes.”

He could feel Richie’s sigh of relief as the worry was cut away for a whole new tension.

“Yes what, baby?”

“Richie -” The hands on Stan tightened.

Richie bit Stan’s lobe, “Yes _what_ , baby boy?” 

“Yes, Sir!” it was blurted out before Stan could think of any other response, his face immediately flushing even deeper; heat spreading down his chest.

Richie’s eyes widened at the admission, certainly not what he was expecting - but more than happy to accommodate. “Yeah baby, you gonna be a good boy for me?”

“I-I…” Richie’s hand wrapped around his shaft again, but this time Stan had no leverage to get away as he let out a hoarse moan.

“That’s right, my good boy, you’re so good.” Richie’s soothing voice felt like a paradox to the overwhelming sensation of his hands across Stan. “You can’t do a thing, Stanley. Just have to relax and be good for me.”

Stan let out another cry at Richie’s thumb swiping through the mess of precum, Richie pressed two fingers against his lips - as hot as Stan was, their walls weren’t that thick. Stan, without thinking about it, opened his lips further to pull the digits into his wet mouth. 

Richie, once again, was floored. Stan just opened right up for him, didn’t need to be prompted at all. Christ. Richie cooed in his ear as Stan suckled on his fingers, the faster he stroked the harder Stan sucked.

Stan could feel his core tightening, his legs were spasming over Richie’s own. The buzzing in his ears was deafening - he was so _close_. He didn’t even know what to, it was so much.

Richie could feel it too, Stan’s dick was practically purple in his grip, a steady stream of precum bubbling up after each twist of his wrist. Stan was right there, he just needed to, “Relax, Stan. Just let go.”

But, Stan shook his head, wheezing around the fingers on his tongue “I-I-I c- _fuck_ -can’t…” his head swung back into Richie’s shoulder, voice cracking on his sobs. Richie’s brow furrowed, Stan should’ve come ages ago, at this rate he was going to faint. 

“Stan, Baby,” Stan sobbed around his fingers, “You gotta let go, just focus on what feels good. Don’t you wanna feel good?” Stan nodded against his neck, but his tension didn’t waver.

Richie looked at the tears in Stan’s eyes, the sweat on his brow, the red of lips… oh. Now _there’s_ an idea. 

Richie turned his face to nuzzle into Stan’s hair as he slipped his fingers from his mouth. Stan was immediately gasping and whining - he no longer had an outlet to distract himself. 

“You just need a push… don’t you, baby boy?” Richie mumbled into his crown, Stan nodded along.

“Please, I can’t I can’t I can’t… Richie, _please_!” 

Richie’s free hand slid down Stan’s thigh, lightly squeezing his balls, and past his taint. He rested one finger against Stan’s hole, just a light pressure to warn him.

“Shhhh, baby…” His finger pressed past the tight ring of muscle, “you just need,” Richie’s finger curled upward hard, “a _push_.”

Stan _screamed_.

His entire body locked up, muscles straining, and released all at once. Richie watched his eyes roll back into his skull, mouth hanging open and tongue poking out as he gasped for air. If Richie didn’t know any better, he’d say Stan looked a little like a puppy. 

“You did so good baby, that’s it, ride it out.” His finger kept curling against Stan’s prostate as he wrung the crown of his cock. Stan continued to twitch and squirm until his eyes started to focus and his whines took a tone of overstimulation.

Richie gently moved his hands away, wiping them across his bed, and gently unhooked Stan’s legs from his own. He turned the smaller boy until he was cradled in his arms, head against his chest.

As Stan’s mind returned, so did his shame. He… he was so slutty. He sounded like whore, crying out for Richie. He brought his hands up to hide his face, shoulders beginning to shake.

Richie saw the change in Stan’s expression before it was hidden by his hands, “Hey, hey, babe…” that drew a whine out of Stan that was not at all sexy, “Stan. Stan the Man, Jew with the plan.” Stan snorted at that, good, minor improvement.

Stan felt Richie’s hand across his wrists - Christ, he could hold both of his arms in one palm - but did his best to keep his face covered. He lost of course, his arms were jelly along with the rest of him. 

Instead, Stan hid his face in Richie’s throat, voice like gravel as he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Richie deadpanned, “Why in the fuck would you be sorry?”

God, Richie was going to make him say it? “I… I was -”

“The sexiest thing I’ve ever seen? Yeah. Damn, Stanley, where were you the last hour?” He didn’t make Stan move his face, instead resting his chin atop Stan’s kinked halo of curls, “Because I’m pretty sure I made the prettiest boy somehow prettier. I didn’t think it was possible, but I’m nothing if not a genius.”

Stan’s cheeks flushed, but he couldn’t help but ask, “You think I’m pretty?”

Richie snorted, pulling Stan in tighter, “And here I thought Billy boy was the most oblivious to male affection.” 

Stan huffed a laugh at that, his eyes heavy, “No one is denser than Bill. The snapback cuts off circulation to his brain.”

“Yowza! Stan the Man gets off a good one!” Richie cackled, “In more ways than one.”

“Beep beep, Richie.” 

Richie smiled into Stan’s curls, “You can’t ‘beep beep’ someone who just beeped your dick, I’m pretty sure that’s a law.” 

Stan smiled into his throat but found the strength to roll his eyes, “You’re insufferable, Tozier.”

“Damn, Stanley, if you’re still able to use big words like that I didn’t do as good as I thought.”

Stan squeaked as he was lifted off of the bed, Richie took slow easy steps as he carried him to their bathroom. Stan felt a little undignified being placed on the counter, but figured his time fighting that battle had long past.

The sweater and button up, now both soaked in sweat, were peeled off of Stan. A chill swept through his bones at the cool air of the bathroom against his flushed skin. Richie hummed a mindless tune to him as he rubbed warmth into his arms.

Richie never fully let go of Stan as he wet a washcloth, reaching behind Stan to warm the water so he could stay pressed against him. He wiped the sweat and cum off of Stan with soft long strokes, mindful of the twitches of aftershocks still running through his nerves.

Stan let himself be soothed by the cloth, cool against his overheated skin. Richie’s soft praise white noise in his ear. He’s sure he made it difficult, resting his head against Richie’s chest couldn’t have made clean up easy. But he just wanted to listen to the thrum of his pulse, the soft rise and fall of his lungs, it was steady in this whirlwind he was trying to come down from.

He must have dozed listening, as when he blinked he was in his own bed with a fresh sleep shirt, tucked under the sheets tight like how he needed. God, Richie thought of everything. Where was he? Stan lolled his head to the side, seeing Richie in new boxers stripping his own bed to lay on the bare mattress. Gross, that was so dirty, who knew how many people used that mattress before him?

Stan wet his lips, “Richie.” he called. His voice was so soft, so weak, he was so sleepy.

Richie’s head shot around, so alert it made Stan giggle.

“What? Stan, are you okay? Do you need anything?” Richie asked as he came over to his bed, running a hand over Stan’s forehead.

“Mm, c’mere.” God, Stan was tired, “Sleep.”

Richie smiled at him, “I’m gonna, Staniel, just go to bed.” He was moving away again, that was no good.

Stan’s fingers slipped out from the sheets, he hardly had a grip on Richie’s boxers but it was like he’d shot him. “No, sleep here. Your bed is dirty.” Richie turned, looking in Stan’s eyes for any hesitation. Stan never shared his bed, the skin cells and hair of another person that close was simply unacceptable. But Stan’s fingers held firm.

“Well, who’s fault was that, Staniel?” Richie murmured, a soft smile on his face. He slipped into the bed, curling against Stan immediately.

Stan rolled, resting his face against Richie’s chest, slowly falling back under to the tempo of his heartbeat.

Richie’s fingers scratched gently as his scalp, “Just like a puppy.” he giggled.

Stan smiled, “Shut up.”

He’d scold him in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> let stan cum 2k17
> 
> Please leave a comment, let me know if this sucks.


End file.
